


The Carpathian Affair

by songlin



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1940s, Alternate Universe - Noir, Case Fic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Sex, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-18
Updated: 2012-09-21
Packaged: 2017-11-14 12:12:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/515115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/songlin/pseuds/songlin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the story of a detective, a doctor, two widows, two romances, and six guns.</p><p>Written for Nefrya on the Johnlock gift exchange. The prompt was as follows: "I would like to read case fic, which is set in 30-40s. When mafia ruled, people wore hats and suits. It also would be nice to see some hurt-comfort between John and Sherlock, and neck kissing. I hope it’s not too much ;) Any rating."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nefrya](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Nefrya).



> Absolutely un-beta'ed, because I didn't have time to get it beta'ed before the deadline happened.
> 
> For background, I've been using [this playlist](http://8tracks.com/yshathat/dark-and-stormy-night) on 8tracks. Chapter 4 will probably require...er...different mood music, though.

_I never planned on Sherlock Holmes._

_Of course, I never planned on the War either. Nobody did, except maybe old Adolf. But I signed up to do my part for king and country. For my troubles I got a bullet in the shoulder at the Kasserine Pass and a lame leg that never actually got hurt but likes to pretend it did._

_I was a surgeon when I joined the army. I came back with only one good hand. In January 1946, I was about two weeks from eating the end of my service pistol._

_Instead, I met Sherlock Holmes._

_He looked me over and asked me right off, Egypt or Tunisia? I said Tunisia, and asked him where he served. He said he hadn’t, and I laughed._

_That got his attention. He put down his magnifying glass, got very close, and demanded to know why I’d laughed._

_“Well,” I said, “it’s just--I know conchies, and if you’re one, I’ll eat my hat.”_

_He had served, of course. Civvie work at Bletchley Park. Later, he told me it was a line. He’d tried it on positively everybody since the end of the war to a wide range of reactions. Apparently, I was the first one to laugh._

_We moved into 221B Baker Street the next day. I shot a serial killer for him, and I haven’t wanted to die a day since._

\---

A police car pulls up to the curb and two men step out onto the pavement. The tall, dark-haired gentleman smirks and turns up his coat collar with a sideways glance at his friend, who rolls his eyes with the mild vexation of a patient man. A policeman leans out the window of the car.

“We shan’t go to court for a few weeks,” he says, “but be ready to present a case, Holmes. I can count on you to show up this time, can’t I?”

The dark-haired man heaves a long-suffering sigh. “Tedious.”

His friend raises an eyebrow at him. “Sherlock--”

“Of course, Lestrade.”

Lestrade nods tightly, seemingly satisfied for now. The window rolls up and the car pulls away from the curb.

Sherlock watches it drive off as he rummages through his pocket. “John, have you got a light? I’m simply gasping.”

John shakes his head and raises an eyebrow. “You know full well I’ve given them up, Sherlock.”

Sherlock studiously ignores him, then scowls when his pockets fail to produce a lighter. “Come. We’d best take lunch before the Yard bungles another case and returns.”

Mrs Hudson leans out her door as they pass on their way up the stairs. “Sherlock--”

“Later, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock calls back. “Urgent matters.”

“Exactly how urgent is your lunchtime cigarette?” John mutters.

Sherlock, again, ignores him. John sighs, shuts the door behind them and draws the curtain down over the glass pane.

“We ought to get a name-painter in,” he says. The sign on the door reads “Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective” in dark block letters, with no mention of a Dr. John Watson in residence. “Makes me feel like your secretary.”

Sherlock lights his cigarette, puts it to his mouth, takes a deep drag and sighs it out. “Not the time, John. Client.”

John turns, eyebrows raised in surprise. There is indeed a client in the parlor, standing by John’s chair with wide eyes while she fidgets with the purse in her hands.

“Er, my apologies,” John says, shooting Sherlock a dark look. He holds out a hand. “Dr John Watson. This is Sherlock Holmes.”

She nods and takes his hand. “Vera Spaulding. I--I’m sorry to have come without notice. Your landlady showed me up. I just--I didn’t know where else to go.”

“Oh no, it’s no inconvenience at all,” John says. “Here, take a seat.”

Vera is a lovely woman, perhaps twenty-five, with red hair tucked up under a small felt cap. She’s dressed smartly, but her clothes are old and obviously repaired in several places. With a little pang of pity, John sees a diamond ring on a chain around her neck. _War widow. Everywhere these days._

Sherlock doesn’t sit, opting instead to lean on the back of John’s chair and exhale cigarette smoke over his head. “Sherlock Holmes. I should warn you, miss, that we do not take every case. I have no interest in adulterous beaus, your friends’ affairs, your landlady’s sticky fingers--”

“No,” Vera interrupts, shaking her head. “It’s nothing like that. It’s my employer, she--she’s gone missing.”

“Why not go to the police?” Sherlock queries, narrowing his eyes.

“I did,” Vera says. “But she’s only been gone since last night, so they think she’s probably just off--er--”

“Yes, we understand,” says John. Sherlock makes an impatient “keep going” movement with his fingers.

“She owns a pawn shop in Shoreditch. We closed up last night at around seven, and she said she was going to this nightclub, the...The Carpathia, I think. I was a little late this morning, but when I got to the shop Mrs Wilson wasn’t there. Two years I’ve been working for her now, and she’s never been late a day. I know it sounds...paranoid, but I’m awfully worried, Mr Holmes. I’ve read about you in the papers; I know you can find her. Is there--can you do anything, do you think?”

John cranes his neck round to look up at Sherlock, fully expecting to have to stop him from saying something rude about what Mrs Wilson has probably spent the night doing.

But Sherlock’s not speaking. He’s narrowed his eyes, in fact, and looks intent.

“Thank you, Mrs Spaulding. We’ll go to this shop immediately.”

“What, now?” says John.

“Absolutely,” says Sherlock.

“The shop?” Vera says, frowning. “Not the club?”

“Yes,” says Sherlock. “I think so.”

“If you think it’s best,” Vera says. “Let me just get my coat from downstairs.”

Sherlock watches her until the door shuts, then rubs his hands together with glee. “John, fetch your revolver. We may have need of it.”

“What? Seriously?”

“Better safe.”

John shakes his head. “You’re awfully excited for this early in a case.”

Sherlock grins. “Oh, it’s not early at all. It’s halfway solved.”

John raises an eyebrow. “It is.”

“Absolutely.”

“So, are you going to leave me to guess blind at the whole thing, or are you passing up a chance to show off for once?”

Sherlock smiles. “I’ll tell you this much: Vera Spaulding hasn’t been to the police. Take a moment then, and think. Why would she possibly report her employer’s disappearance to a private detective rather than the Yard?”


	2. Chapter 2

Wilson Pawn is a small, shabby store on a street decimated by the Blitz. Every other building is either brand new or a pile of rubble, but Wilson Pawn appears untouched.

“We were lucky,” Vera says as she unlocks the front door. “The windows blew, but we kept the place together.”

“Very impressive,” says Sherlock, sounding entirely insincere. “Have you got the keys to Mrs Spaulding’s flat above?”

“Er, yes,” Vera says, shutting the door behind them. “Just a--”

“I’ll need to look it over alone first,” Sherlock says, holding out his hand.

Vera, flustered, drops the keyring into his outstretched palm. “It’s the little gold-colored one.”

“John, if you’ll examine the shop,” Sherlock says, and sweeps off upstairs.

John sighs. “Apologies,” he says with a nod to Vera.

She smiles ruefully. “Oh, I’m not offended. The bright ones are always like that. Nobody else thinks as quickly as they. I’ve got a too-clever daughter myself. Her teachers are always sending home nasty notes.”

John bends over the register. “Do you empty this out every night?”

“We put the biggest bills in the safe under the counter until Fridays.”

John pulls the tray open. Sure enough, it’s full of coins and two one-pound notes. It’s maybe enough to break in and steal, if you’re desperate. Definitely nothing you’d leave behind.

There’s a small notepad sitting on top of the safe covered in dates and numbers. John squints at it. It’s an accounting system of some sort, though obviously one Mrs Wilson came up with herself.

“Can you read this?” John asks, picking it up and holding it out to Vera.

She peers at the page and shakes her head. “Sorry. Jean--Mrs Wilson balances the books. I just do the buying and selling. Anyways, I’d never be able to see if there’s anything missing from the safe. Mrs Wilson’s the only one with the combination.”

“Fair enough.” John takes another look, then replaces the notebook and wanders round the counter and through the shop, peering into corners and poking at the backs of shelves. “So you’ve got a daughter?”

Vera smiles and ducks her head. “Two, actually. Nine and five.”

_Five? She’d have been born...1941 sometime. Late 1940 maybe._

“My sister looks after them while I’m at work, and Mrs Wilson is great about letting me have time if there’s an emergency,” Vera says, idly picking up a music box and turning the key. When she opens it up, it plays a familiar-sounding tune, minor and dissonant.

“Sounds like a good boss to have.”

“The best.”

John looks up from the antique punch bowl he’s studying and catches Vera’s expression as she looks into the mirror in the music box. She looks sad, concerned. Altogether natural, given the situation. But there’s something else in the lines of her face that John can’t--quite--

The song grinds to a halt and Vera snaps the box shut. “Should you go check on your friend upstairs?” she asks, replacing the music box. “I need to call my sister and remind her to make sure my daughter practices for her piano lesson tomorrow.”

“Yeah, I should.”

The door to Mrs Wilson’s apartment is open. Sherlock is laid on his stomach, ear to the floorboards.

_“Shh,”_ he hisses.

John hushes and waits.

A second passes. Another.

With a heavy sigh, Sherlock heaves himself up off the floor. “There’s no use. It’s just as she said, she’s calling her sister. Dull.”

“You could hear us?”

“Of course. One of the greatest advantages of living above your shop: you hear everything, much to the irritation of many a robber or dishonest employee. What do you think, John?”

He blinks. “What do--”

“--you think, yes. Particularly of Mrs Spaulding. The fairer sex is your department, after all.”

The barest hint of a smirk flits over his face. John purses his lips.

“Well?” says Sherlock.

John scratches the side of his head. “Well--she’s definitely hiding something. She’s closer to Mrs Wilson than she’s letting on, I’ll tell you that much. And she shouldn’t be making enough off of this job alone to support herself and two daughters, even with her sister’s help. I’ve had a look at their books. Books which, by the way, Mrs Spaulding said she couldn’t read, despite there being two sets of handwriting in the ledger.”

“Third employee?” Sherlock muses.

John shakes his head. “Only two salaries on the books.”

There’s a ghost of a smile playing at the corners of Sherlock’s mouth. _“Very_ good. Go on.”

“Er--it’s not something you’d really count, I don’t think--”

“As I said, John, the fairer sex is _absolutely_ not my department.”

John grins. “She’s--she seems sort of--guilty. I saw her face for a second downstairs, when she thought I wasn’t looking. It’s only when she’s distracted. It might not be that. But I don’t think she’s telling us everything she knows.”

Sherlock is positively beaming. He takes two strides forward, seizes John by the shoulders, and plants a kiss on his forehead. John splutters, but Sherlock interrupts him before he can get out the exclamation of “in _public,_ Sherlock, someone could _see!”_

_“Fantastic,_ John. Now, if you’ll go fetch Mrs Spaulding--”

“Vera, please,” she says from the doorway. “Have you found anything?”

Sherlock smirks.

“Jean Wilson is four years a widow, no children, and lives alone. This shop was her husband’s before she took it over, but none of that matters. What matters is that she brought a man home last night from the Carpathian. He was about six feet tall, give or take a few centimeters, and weighed around thirteen stone. Wore a three-piece suit with a tie and a hat, likely a fedora, a wool coat and wingtip shoes. Mrs Wilson also dressed nicely: chiffon dress, pumps, a pillbox hat and her only fur coat. They returned to the flat around one in the morning, went straight to the bedroom--”

“Sherlock!” John interjects.

“--where Mrs Wilson pulled a gun on him.”

Vera gasps.

“He wrested the gun away from her and bullied her into submission with his superior physical strength. They left the apartment together by 1:30 AM.”

Vera’s eyes are wide and terrified. “Is she--”

“I have every reason to believe she is alive,” Sherlock says. “More importantly, Mrs Spaulding, I would like to know why you attempted to hide this.”

He produces a small revolver from his coat pocket. Vera fists her hands at her sides, looks away and clenches her jaw.

“In the future, the fireplace is the first place someone looks.”

Vera sighs, drops into the armchair by the fireplace, and covers her face with her hands. “I didn’t want you to think--”

A muscle in Sherlock’s jaw works, but his tone stays even. “I gathered as much.”

Vera shakes her head. “It’s my fault,” she says, voice thick. “She found out everything, and she wanted to help. I should’ve stopped her. It’s all my fault.”

John scoots the other armchair closer and sits down, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “It’s alright, Vera. Take your time.” He shoots Sherlock a look before Sherlock can contradict him.

“I’m alright,” Vera says. She straightens and tugs her blouse down. “I am.” She takes a deep breath.

“I got this job at the Carpathian as a singer. Well--” She laughs bitterly. “Most of what I did wasn’t singing.” She twists her hands in her lap. “I’ve got my girls to think of, you know? I get a bit of a pension from Frank, but not enough. I didn’t see any other way.”

“Did Mrs Wilson know?” John asks.

Vera shakes her head. “I didn’t want to tell her. We were...close. Very close. Rather like you two.”

There’s a flicker of understanding on Sherlock’s face. “Ah.”

Vera’s mouth tightens. “I was afraid she’d think less of me. I cared about that. Quite a bit, to be frank. She’s just...Jean is peerless. She’s the best and the strongest woman I’ve ever known. For her to know that I had...resorted to…” She shakes her head.

“A few weeks ago she told me she wanted to make me co-owner of the shop, and asked if I’d like to move in with her. It was going to change my life. I wouldn’t need my sister to watch the girls anymore; they’d be just upstairs while I was at work. And the money...well. Suffice it to say I’d never need to work in a nightclub again.”

“And that didn’t go over so well at the Carpathian,” says John.

Vera grimaces. “Joe Clay, the man who owns the club--practically owns _me,_ when you get down to it--he said I’d leave when they said I could. That I was too big an asset to the establishment. You have to understand, this man has...connections. Some of his employees are of a truly unsavory nature. They know where I live. They know I have children. I couldn’t risk all of that.”

“So you told Jean last night,” Sherlock says.

“One of Clay’s men came by the shop. He didn’t even do anything, just...looked around. But I knew, I _knew_ what it meant. After he left, I started to cry, and I couldn’t stop. Jean got it out of me then.” Vera smiles and looks down at her lap. “Then she got this--look, all determined, like when someone asks her when she’s planning on marrying again, and she said she’d take care of it. She left for the Carpathian last night and promised to call in the morning. When she didn’t call...I knew something was wrong. I came in and saw her gun on the rug and knew what had happened. She must’ve brought Clay back here and tried to threaten him. He left this.”

She works a hand into her pocket and holds out a note written on a wrinkled receipt. John takes it. It reads, _“Vera: Tomorrow night in the shop. We’ll talk. Joe.”_

“I had to make sure I had...backup. But I couldn’t go to the police,” she says. “They...it would be...complicated.”

Sherlock nods. “To say the least.”

“So...that’s everything.” She shrugs helplessly. “Now what?”

“Well,” says Sherlock, “mostly, now we wait.”

“Have you got a gun?” John asks.

Vera nods. “My husband’s. It’s at my flat.”

“Fetch it.”


	3. Chapter 3

Vera returns an hour later with a lunchbox containing three sandwiches, a tin of toffees, and a Smith & Wesson Victory Model.

“I thought you might be hungry,” she says, setting the revolver on the kitchen counter and the sandwiches on the table.

“Good gun,” John says, nodding.

Vera nods. “I’ve only ever had to use her once, but she served me just fine. I hope you like corned beef.”

Sherlock sneers.

“Love it,” John says, passing Sherlock a sandwich.

The plan is not complicated. Vera is to wait behind the counter with her revolver hidden in her pocket. Sherlock and John will be on the floor beside her, their guns at the ready. Vera is to signal how many people there are and with how many guns, and Sherlock and John are to react appropriately as soon as Vera signals.

“You never write about the waiting in your stories, Dr Watson,” Vera says.

She’s leaning forward onto the counter, her revolver in the pocket of her skirt. John is sitting with his legs stretched out on the floor in front of him and his gun holstered at his hip. Sherlock is perched on a short stool and leaning against the safe with his eyes closed while he drums his fingers on his knees.

“Doesn’t make for particularly interesting reading, I’m afraid. _The Strand_ would drop me like a rock if I told the truth.”

“I’m pleased to see you admit to the outrageous amounts of truth-stretching you do in those horrid stories,” Sherlock drones without opening his eyes. “Sensationalized rubbish, the--”

“You don’t like Dr Watson’s stories?” says Vera, incredulous.

Sherlock snorts.

John sighs. “Sherlock’s not much for fiction. He mostly reads obscure French science journals and the like.”

“But they’re about _him!”_

“Oh, he’s a great one for flattery. He just wishes I’d write more about the things that _The Strand_ would drop me like a rock for writing more about.”

“I have _merely_ implied--”

“You want to talk about two hundred types of tobacco ash, publish your own articles.”

“Two hundred and forty-three,” Sherlock corrects irritably.

Vera laughs, then freezes. John rolls up onto his knees and draws his gun. Sherlock follows suit.

As soon as the door opens, Vera gasps.

“Jean--”

“Sorry, Vera,” Jean says. “I tried. Got a little out of hand.”

“That’s enough gossip from the girls, I think,” a man drawls.

There is a crack of a hand meeting a face, and Jean cries out briefly.

Vera’s hands are at her sides. She shows three fingers in her left hand and one in her right. That’s three men--barring Jean Wilson--and two guns, to their three and three. _Great_ odds. John grins.

Vera casually slips a hand into her pocket. “After anything in particular, Mr Clay? You’ll find we haven’t enough cash to warrant your attention, but we’ve--”

“You’re such a helpful girl, Vera,” Clay sighs. “You see why I’m so loathe to lose you.”

“Number one earner, that’s me,” she whispers.

“Right you are.”

John catches Sherlock’s eye and jerks his head towards the door. He shakes his head. Vera still hasn’t signaled.

“And such a bright thing--except for this one misstep. Really sweetheart, it wasn’t a very clever plan, sending your girlfriend here to threaten me.”

Vera swallows and says nothing. She doesn’t signal either.

“I should let you know I’m not fond having guns pointed at me. Really I’m not. ‘Specially not in the bedroom. So I felt you might need some...special discouragement from attempting this particular plan of action again, you know what I mean?”

Vera nods. “I do.”

She draws her gun from her pocket.

“Shit,” John hisses.

It takes them about three seconds to come around the counter.

By the time they’re up and around, Jean Wilson has turned around and is trying to wrestle the gun from John Clay. He’s got one thug with a gun just noticing John and lunging towards him and one with a knife who’s just turning and running out the door. Sherlock gives chase. John brings his gun up and aims it carefully at the other thug’s head. The thug grins.

From there, several things happen in quick succession.

In the struggle over Jean and Clay’s gun, it goes off. Someone screams.

Vera shoots.

A window shatters.

John shoots.

Clay’s thug shoots.

Then, it is quiet for slightly less than four seconds.

Jean Wilson falls to her knees. Her chest heaves with one choking sob. Vera drops her gun on the counter and runs to her. “Are you all right?”

Jean nods and throws her arms around Vera. “Yes. Yes, I’m fine.”

John Clay is sprawled on the floor. Blood is spreading across the linoleum from two small holes in his head and chest.

“We’re okay,” Vera says, stroking Jean’s hair. “We’re okay.”

Sherlock bursts through the door of the shop. “He got away,” he growls, momentarily furious. Then he sees John sitting on the floor, leaning against the counter and pressing his hands to a gradually blossoming stain in his trouser leg.

He kneels by John’s side and seizes his shoulders. “You’re not hurt. You are _not_ _hurt,_ John. For God’s sake, _tell me you’re not hurt!”_

John is momentarily stunned into silence by Sherlock’s face, the wide eyes and trembling lips. 

“Just winged me a bit,” John says through gritted teeth, lifting his hand briefly from the wound and hissing at the pain. “I’ll be fine.” He nods at the corpse lying a few feet away and the neat red hole in his forehead. “Him, not so much.”

Sherlock’s jaw sets. He nods. “Right. We’re going home.”

“We can’t, it’s a crime--”

“Vera, Jean,” Sherlock says. The women look up. “I advise that when you call the police, you inform them there’s been an armed robbery. These men were about to shoot. Naturally, you fired first, to defend yourselves and your home. You’ll find the police quite amenable, I think.”

Vera nods. “Thank you, Mr Holmes. And you too, Dr Watson. You’ll be alright?”

John eases himself onto his feet and winces. “Good enough. Take care of yourselves. We’ll be in touch, yeah?”

“Please,” Vera says.

Sherlock and John exit the scene, John’s arm around Sherlock’s shoulders for support, and set off for Baker Street.


	4. Chapter 4

“What do you need?” Sherlock demands, after John has shucked his ruined trousers, washed his hands, sat down on the kitchen table and put his leg up on a chair.

“My bag’s on the bedside table. Bring it down and wash your hands. Don’t dry them on the dishtowel.”

Sherlock obeys quickly and silently. While he’s rinsing the soap off his hands, John dabs Mercurochrome onto a sterile cloth and presses it gingerly to the wound with a wince. It’s about halfway up his thigh on the outside and perhaps a finger’s length in size. The bleeding’s mostly stopped, though there’s a reddish-brown stain of dried blood surrounding it.

“Let me do that,” Sherlock says, and replaces John’s hand with his.

“It’s not bleeding and I don’t think it’s bad enough to necessitate stitches,” John says. “Just got to clean it and wrap it up. I can’t see half of it though, so probably better if you do it. Don’t want to rip up the side of my leg and start gushing all over the table.” He smiles kindly.

Sherlock takes a deep breath and carefully daubs at the wound with the cloth. The red stain only gets worse, blotchy and asymmetrical, like a floral tablecloth pattern in antiseptic and hemoglobin. It’s just the Mercurochrome, really, but that doesn’t quell the rising panic in Sherlock’s quivering torso, rising up in his throat, choking, and--

He doesn’t realize he’s gasping and shaking until John catches his wrist and guides him into the chair John’s foot is on. “Hey, easy,” he’s saying. He sounds like he’s speaking through a wall. Sherlock shakes his head. “Let me just--”  
John takes the cloth and sets it aside. Sherlock bends over double and clutches his head in his hands.

John folds a square of gauze and presses it to his wound. He pins it with two steady fingers while with his other hand he plucks up a bandage from his kit, the end of which he secures between the gauze and his fingers before winding it around his leg a few times and taping it in place. Once it’s bandaged to John’s satisfaction, he hops off the table mostly one-legged, takes Sherlock by the shoulders, moves him further back in the chair and dips his head to Sherlock’s level.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

Sherlock’s hand comes up, searching for John’s. John catches it and kisses the knuckles. Sherlock’s trembling worsens.

“Come on,” John says. “Let’s go to bed.” He squeezes Sherlock’s shoulder.

They’re a sorry sight trying to walk, between John’s limp and Sherlock’s daze. But they make it down the hall and onto the bed, where Sherlock curls into a ball against John’s chest and buries his face in his neck. John’s hands come up to pull Sherlock in by the small of his back and the base of his skull.

Sherlock shuts his eyes and concentrates on inhaling and exhaling, slowly and deeply and with all his focus, even though his head feels like it’s filling up with lint and inflating like a balloon, and every breath smells like merbromin and alcohol and gun oil and Sherlock’s cigarettes, which all add up to John and remind Sherlock that John is alive.

“It was worth it,” John says.

Sherlock can hear him properly now. That’s a definite improvement, although the words aren’t. He shudders and coils inward.

“Was not.”

“For this?” John laughs softly. “Absolutely worth it. And I’d do it again.”

“Cruel,” Sherlock says, voice muffled in John’s shirt. “You would want me like this?”

John plants a kiss on Sherlock’s hair. “I don’t like you frightened,” he clarifies. “I don’t want you hurt. But it’s not often I get to see less of your brain and more of your heart.”

Sherlock gives a small moan and squeezes his eyes shut.

He still can’t think in an orderly fashion, and he’s starting to shake again, and the chaos is building in his chest. He needs to do something to halt it, so he plants his open mouth on John’s throat and sucks at the skin over his jugular vein.

Sherlock can taste the flutter of John’s pulse, feel its slow _accelerando_ on his tongue. He laves the beads of sweat from John’s skin, maps the shape of his trachea with his lips. John’s hands fly up to clutch at Sherlock’s shoulders. Sherlock kisses a line up to under John’s jaw, and John obligingly tips his head back with a groan. Sherlock presses his hand to John’s chest, because he’d like to feel the rate at which John’s heart pumps with his fingers and his tongue. John’s breathing distracts him, high and quick.

“Oh,” John says softly. “That’s--”

Sherlock shudders and nips at the line of John’s jaw. John hisses and catches his lower lip in his teeth.

“Do you want--”

Sherlock captures his mouth in a long, slow, kiss, and doesn’t stop until John is flushed and running his hands up and down Sherlock’s ribs.

“You,” he says. “Just--just you. Let me--”

“Yeah,” John murmurs. “Yeah, of course.”

Sherlock’s still wearing his shirt and trousers and braces. He wriggles out of them as quickly as he can. John’s attempts to help do more hindering, to tell the truth, but Sherlock doesn’t stop him. As soon as he’s kicked off his pants and flung them in some indeterminate direction, John grips him by the waist and drags him forward, between his legs, pushing up to meet him with a deep moan of delight. The contact between John’s thin cotton pants and the bare skin of Sherlock’s cock is a maddening tease, a promise of not quite enough pleasure, and Sherlock has to grit his teeth against it.

“Now you,” Sherlock says, reaching for John’s shirt.

John is only wearing a shirt, vest, and pants. Divesting him of clothes is that much easier, though Sherlock pulls his pants down and off with caution, taking care to avoid the bandage on John’s left leg. John smiles.

“I’m fine,” he insists. “I swear.”

Sherlock’s face twists. It has become altogether imperative that he kiss John this instant.

John holds out his hands, pulls Sherlock close again, and Sherlock does just that.

This time, there’s nothing between them. Sherlock sighs into John’s mouth, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Yes,” John whispers. “Oh yes.”

He spits in his hand, reaches between their bodies, and grasps hold. Sherlock nearly sobs.

“Just like that, come on, love.”

_You mustn’t, you mustn’t,_ Sherlock is thinking, but he’s not saying a thing. Instead, he’s groaning, clutching the headboard and rocking his hips forward. John throws his head back and hisses out a breath through his teeth. The hand that’s not between their bodies cups Sherlock’s arse and squeezes, pulling him in. Sherlock lets out a small, choked cry and moves again.

Sometimes, when they make love, it’s to the accompaniment of grins and teases and chuckles and admonishments to quiet down. Sometimes, it’s hard and fast and angry.

Other times, they hardly say anything at all. Perhaps one of them gasps, or someone moans a name. After those times, neither of them could tell you how long it took, or much else really. It doesn’t matter.

This time, it does not take long. Sherlock feels it first as a tingling in his stomach, then heat, blowing outwards through his body, through tensed muscles and clenched teeth. He shakes for what feels like an age, panting in rough-edged cries, and then finally, finally, he’s unwinding, falling to the side, reaching down to wrap his hand around John’s--

“Oh Jesus _Christ,”_ John gasps.

Sherlock kisses him as he comes, swallowing his voice.

As soon as John’s relaxed, Sherlock nestles in close and buries his face in the side of John’s neck again. John doesn’t move away, not even to clean up. Sherlock could kiss him again for that, as some things are more important than tidiness, whatever some army doctors think. So he does, less deeply this time but no less possessively. John pulls the sheets over them.

“There’s time for laundry in the morning,” he says with a little smile.

“Mm,” Sherlock agrees. “There’s time.”


End file.
